Daughter of the Blood
Page 68
Surreal turned and stifled a scream.
"Hush," Jaenelle said with a savagely sweet smile. She was as transparent as Marjane, and the lacy nighty she wore didn't move when the wind gusted. Only the sapphire eyes seemed alive.
Surreal looked away. She felt drawn by those eyes, and she knew instinctively that anything drawn into those eyes now would never come back.
"The debt's not yours to pay, Surreal," Jaenelle said in her midnight whisper. "He doesn't owe his blood to you."
"But the ones he owes can't call in the debt!" Surreal hissed, keeping her voice low.
Jaenelle laughed. It was like hearing the winter wind laugh. "You think not? There is dead and there is dead, Surreal."
"He owes me for Titian," Surreal insisted.
"He owes Titian for Titian. When the time comes, he'll pay the debt to her."
"He killed her."
"No, he broke her, seeded her. A man named Greer, Dorothea's hound, killed her."
Surreal brushed at the tears spilling down her cheeks. "You're dead, aren't you?" she said wearily.
"No. My body's still there." Jaenelle pointed toward Briarwood and frowned. "They gave me some of their special 'medicine,' the one that's supposed to make girls behave, but something went wrong. I'm still connected to my body. I can't break the link and leave it, but this misty place is very nice. Do you see the mist, Surreal?"
Surreal shook her head.
"When I'm in the mist, I can see them all." Jaenelle smiled and held out a transparent hand. "Come, Surreal. Let me show you Briarwood."
Surreal stood up, brushing the snow from her knees. Jaenelle laughed softly. It was the most haunting, terrifying sound Surreal had ever heard.
"Briarwood is the pretty poison," Jaenelle said softly. "There is no cure for Briarwood. Beware the golden spider who spins a tangled web." Her hand touched Surreal's arm, drawing her toward the garden. "Rose said I should build a trap, something that will snap shut if my blood is spilled. So I did. If they spring the trap . . . dying is what they'll wish for, but their wish will be long in coming."
"You'll still be dead," Surreal said hoarsely. As she saw the shadows in the garden beginning to take shape, she tried to stop, tried to turn and run, but her legs wouldn't obey her.
Jaenelle shrugged. "I've walked among the cildru dyathe. Hell doesn't frighten me."
"She's too old to be one of us," said a voice Surreal knew had come, at one time, from a poorer section of Beldon Mor.
Surreal turned. A few minutes ago, seeing a girl walking toward her in a bloody dress with her throat slit would have been a shock. Now it was something her numbed mind cataloged as simply part of Briarwood.
"This is Rose," Jaenelle said to Surreal. "She's demon-dead."
"It's not so bad," Rose said, shrugging. "Except I can only cause trouble now after the sun goes down." She laughed. It was a ghastly sound. "And when I tickle a lollipop, it makes them feel so queer."
Jaenelle plucked at Surreal's sleeve. Her smile was sweetly vicious. "Come. Let me introduce you to some of my friends."
Surreal followed Jaenelle to the garden, grateful that Rose had disappeared.
Jaenelle's giggle held the echo of madness. "This is the carrot patch. This is where they bury the redheads."
Two redheaded girls sat side by side in blood-soaked dresses.
"They don't have any hands," Surreal said quietly. She felt feverish and slightly dizzy.
"Myrol wasn't behaving for an uncle and he hurt her. Rebecca hit him to make him stop hurting Myrol, and when he hit Rebecca, Myrol started hitting him, too." Jaenelle was silent for a moment. "No one even tried to stop the bleeding. They'd been bought from a poor family, you see. Their parents never expected them back, so it didn't make any difference." Jaenelle gestured toward the whole garden filled with misty shapes. "None of them were asked about. They 'ran away' or 'disappeared.'"
They walked to the end of the garden.
Surreal frowned. "Why are some of them easy to see and others so misty?"
"It depends on how long they've been here, how strong they were when they died. Rose was the only one strong enough to become cildru dyathe who wanted to stay. The other cildru dyathe have gone to the Dark Realm. Char will look after them. These girls have always been ghosts, too strong to slip into the ever-night but not strong enough to move away from where their bodies lay." Jaenelle nodded to the girl at the end of the garden. To Surreal's eyes, she looked more vivid, more "real" than Jaenelle. "This is Dannie." Jaenelle's voice quivered with pain. "They served her leg for dinner one night."
Surreal ran for the nearby bushes and retched. When she turned around, the garden was empty. A low wind swept over the snow, wiping away her footprints. When it was done, there was only the building, the empty lawn, and the garden with its secrets.
4—Terreille
Daemon Sadi watched the sun rise.
All through the long, long night, he'd listened along the Black threads of a psychic web he'd created around Beldon Mor for any disturbance, any indication that Jaenelle might be in danger. Without using the Black Jewels to aid him, it was a strain to keep the web functioning, but like a determined spider, he stayed in the center, aware of the most minute vibration along every strand.
It had been a reluctant gamble to leave her in Briarwood. He didn't trust Alexandra, but if Jaenelle had been drugged, especially with something like safframate, it was safer for her to come out of it in the same surroundings. He'd seen too many young witches flee into the Twisted Kingdom when their minds couldn't understand the change in their surroundings, couldn't comprehend that they were safe. The thought of Jaenelle lost in madness was unbearable, so he could only hope the drugged sleep would make her uninteresting prey. If it didn't . . .
There was no reason for him to stay among the living without Jaenelle, but if he did go to the Dark Realm, he promised himself he wouldn't be the only new subject kneeling before the High Lord.
Daemon stripped off his clothes, showered, dressed in riding clothes, and quietly slipped down to the kitchen. He put a kettle on for coffee and made breakfast. When Jaenelle returned, they would have to leave quickly, not giving Philip or Alexandra any additional time to present obstacles. There would be no time for good-byes. He'd seldom had time for good-byes. Besides, there hadn't been that many people in his life who'd regretted seeing him go. But there was one here who deserved to know the Lady would be gone forever.
By the time he'd washed his breakfast dishes and was drinking his second cup of coffee, Cook stumbled into the kitchen, sinking heavily into one of the kitchen chairs. She looked at him sadly as Daemon set a cup of coffee in front of her.
"She's back in that hospital, isn't she?" Cook dabbed at her eyes.
Daemon sat beside her. "Yes," he said quietly. He held her hands and rubbed gently. "But not for long. She'll be out this afternoon."
"Do you think so?" She gave him a grateful, trembling smile. "In that case, I can—"
"No." Daemon squeezed her hands. "She'll be out of Briarwood, but she won't be coming back."
Cook withdrew her hands. Her lips quivered. "You're taking her away, aren't you?"
Daemon tried to be gentle. "There's a place she can live where she'll be cared for and she'll be safe."
"She's cared for here," Cook protested sharply.
It hurt to watch her eyes fill with tears. "But not safe. If this continues, she'll break under the strain or die." He wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I promise you, she'll be in a safe place, and no one will ever lock her away again."
Cook dabbed her eyes with her apron. "They're good people, these folk you found for her? They won't be . . . critical . . . of her odd ways?"
"They don't think her ways are odd." Daemon sipped his coffee. This, too, was a gamble. "However, I would appreciate your not mentioning any of this until we're gone. There are some here who want to harm her, who would use whatever means they could to stop us if they realized I'm going to take her out of their reach."
Cook thought about this, nodded, sniffed, and rose briskly from the table. "You'll be needing some breakfast, then."
"I've eaten, thanks." Daemon set his cup on the counter. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around, and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "You're a sweetheart," he said huskily. Then he was out the back door, heading for the stables.
Even this early in the morning, the stables were in an uproar. The stable lads scowled at him as he entered. Guinness stood in the center of the square, a bottle tucked in the crook of his arm, snarling orders and swearing under his breath. When he saw Daemon, his heavy eyebrows formed a fierce line over bleary eyes.
"And what would the high and mighty want at this hour of the morning?" Guinness snapped. He put the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow.
They knew, Daemon thought as he took the bottle from Guinness and helped himself. Whatever it was Jaenelle brought to this place was already fading, and they knew. Handing the bottle back to Guinness, he said quietly, "Saddle Dark Dancer."
"Have ya been kicked in the head recently?" Guinness shouted, glaring at Daemon. "That one kicked down half his stall last night and tried to turn Andrew into pulp. You won't get a brisk morning gallop out of him if that's what you're thinking."
Daemon looked over his shoulder. Andrew leaned against the door of Dark Dancer's stall, favoring one leg. "I'll saddle him." Daemon brushed past the stable lads, ignoring Guinness's dark muttering.
When Daemon pulled the latch to open the top half of the door, Andrew thrust out a shaking hand to stop him. "He wants to kill something," Andrew whispered.
Daemon looked at the sunken eyes in the pale, frightened face. "So do I." He opened the door.
"Hush," Jaenelle said with a savagely sweet smile. She was as transparent as Marjane, and the lacy nighty she wore didn't move when the wind gusted. Only the sapphire eyes seemed alive.
Surreal looked away. She felt drawn by those eyes, and she knew instinctively that anything drawn into those eyes now would never come back.
"The debt's not yours to pay, Surreal," Jaenelle said in her midnight whisper. "He doesn't owe his blood to you."
"But the ones he owes can't call in the debt!" Surreal hissed, keeping her voice low.
Jaenelle laughed. It was like hearing the winter wind laugh. "You think not? There is dead and there is dead, Surreal."
"He owes me for Titian," Surreal insisted.
"He owes Titian for Titian. When the time comes, he'll pay the debt to her."
"He killed her."
"No, he broke her, seeded her. A man named Greer, Dorothea's hound, killed her."
Surreal brushed at the tears spilling down her cheeks. "You're dead, aren't you?" she said wearily.
"No. My body's still there." Jaenelle pointed toward Briarwood and frowned. "They gave me some of their special 'medicine,' the one that's supposed to make girls behave, but something went wrong. I'm still connected to my body. I can't break the link and leave it, but this misty place is very nice. Do you see the mist, Surreal?"
Surreal shook her head.
"When I'm in the mist, I can see them all." Jaenelle smiled and held out a transparent hand. "Come, Surreal. Let me show you Briarwood."
Surreal stood up, brushing the snow from her knees. Jaenelle laughed softly. It was the most haunting, terrifying sound Surreal had ever heard.
"Briarwood is the pretty poison," Jaenelle said softly. "There is no cure for Briarwood. Beware the golden spider who spins a tangled web." Her hand touched Surreal's arm, drawing her toward the garden. "Rose said I should build a trap, something that will snap shut if my blood is spilled. So I did. If they spring the trap . . . dying is what they'll wish for, but their wish will be long in coming."
"You'll still be dead," Surreal said hoarsely. As she saw the shadows in the garden beginning to take shape, she tried to stop, tried to turn and run, but her legs wouldn't obey her.
Jaenelle shrugged. "I've walked among the cildru dyathe. Hell doesn't frighten me."
"She's too old to be one of us," said a voice Surreal knew had come, at one time, from a poorer section of Beldon Mor.
Surreal turned. A few minutes ago, seeing a girl walking toward her in a bloody dress with her throat slit would have been a shock. Now it was something her numbed mind cataloged as simply part of Briarwood.
"This is Rose," Jaenelle said to Surreal. "She's demon-dead."
"It's not so bad," Rose said, shrugging. "Except I can only cause trouble now after the sun goes down." She laughed. It was a ghastly sound. "And when I tickle a lollipop, it makes them feel so queer."
Jaenelle plucked at Surreal's sleeve. Her smile was sweetly vicious. "Come. Let me introduce you to some of my friends."
Surreal followed Jaenelle to the garden, grateful that Rose had disappeared.
Jaenelle's giggle held the echo of madness. "This is the carrot patch. This is where they bury the redheads."
Two redheaded girls sat side by side in blood-soaked dresses.
"They don't have any hands," Surreal said quietly. She felt feverish and slightly dizzy.
"Myrol wasn't behaving for an uncle and he hurt her. Rebecca hit him to make him stop hurting Myrol, and when he hit Rebecca, Myrol started hitting him, too." Jaenelle was silent for a moment. "No one even tried to stop the bleeding. They'd been bought from a poor family, you see. Their parents never expected them back, so it didn't make any difference." Jaenelle gestured toward the whole garden filled with misty shapes. "None of them were asked about. They 'ran away' or 'disappeared.'"
They walked to the end of the garden.
Surreal frowned. "Why are some of them easy to see and others so misty?"
"It depends on how long they've been here, how strong they were when they died. Rose was the only one strong enough to become cildru dyathe who wanted to stay. The other cildru dyathe have gone to the Dark Realm. Char will look after them. These girls have always been ghosts, too strong to slip into the ever-night but not strong enough to move away from where their bodies lay." Jaenelle nodded to the girl at the end of the garden. To Surreal's eyes, she looked more vivid, more "real" than Jaenelle. "This is Dannie." Jaenelle's voice quivered with pain. "They served her leg for dinner one night."
Surreal ran for the nearby bushes and retched. When she turned around, the garden was empty. A low wind swept over the snow, wiping away her footprints. When it was done, there was only the building, the empty lawn, and the garden with its secrets.
4—Terreille
Daemon Sadi watched the sun rise.
All through the long, long night, he'd listened along the Black threads of a psychic web he'd created around Beldon Mor for any disturbance, any indication that Jaenelle might be in danger. Without using the Black Jewels to aid him, it was a strain to keep the web functioning, but like a determined spider, he stayed in the center, aware of the most minute vibration along every strand.
It had been a reluctant gamble to leave her in Briarwood. He didn't trust Alexandra, but if Jaenelle had been drugged, especially with something like safframate, it was safer for her to come out of it in the same surroundings. He'd seen too many young witches flee into the Twisted Kingdom when their minds couldn't understand the change in their surroundings, couldn't comprehend that they were safe. The thought of Jaenelle lost in madness was unbearable, so he could only hope the drugged sleep would make her uninteresting prey. If it didn't . . .
There was no reason for him to stay among the living without Jaenelle, but if he did go to the Dark Realm, he promised himself he wouldn't be the only new subject kneeling before the High Lord.
Daemon stripped off his clothes, showered, dressed in riding clothes, and quietly slipped down to the kitchen. He put a kettle on for coffee and made breakfast. When Jaenelle returned, they would have to leave quickly, not giving Philip or Alexandra any additional time to present obstacles. There would be no time for good-byes. He'd seldom had time for good-byes. Besides, there hadn't been that many people in his life who'd regretted seeing him go. But there was one here who deserved to know the Lady would be gone forever.
By the time he'd washed his breakfast dishes and was drinking his second cup of coffee, Cook stumbled into the kitchen, sinking heavily into one of the kitchen chairs. She looked at him sadly as Daemon set a cup of coffee in front of her.
"She's back in that hospital, isn't she?" Cook dabbed at her eyes.
Daemon sat beside her. "Yes," he said quietly. He held her hands and rubbed gently. "But not for long. She'll be out this afternoon."
"Do you think so?" She gave him a grateful, trembling smile. "In that case, I can—"
"No." Daemon squeezed her hands. "She'll be out of Briarwood, but she won't be coming back."
Cook withdrew her hands. Her lips quivered. "You're taking her away, aren't you?"
Daemon tried to be gentle. "There's a place she can live where she'll be cared for and she'll be safe."
"She's cared for here," Cook protested sharply.
It hurt to watch her eyes fill with tears. "But not safe. If this continues, she'll break under the strain or die." He wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I promise you, she'll be in a safe place, and no one will ever lock her away again."
Cook dabbed her eyes with her apron. "They're good people, these folk you found for her? They won't be . . . critical . . . of her odd ways?"
"They don't think her ways are odd." Daemon sipped his coffee. This, too, was a gamble. "However, I would appreciate your not mentioning any of this until we're gone. There are some here who want to harm her, who would use whatever means they could to stop us if they realized I'm going to take her out of their reach."
Cook thought about this, nodded, sniffed, and rose briskly from the table. "You'll be needing some breakfast, then."
"I've eaten, thanks." Daemon set his cup on the counter. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around, and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "You're a sweetheart," he said huskily. Then he was out the back door, heading for the stables.
Even this early in the morning, the stables were in an uproar. The stable lads scowled at him as he entered. Guinness stood in the center of the square, a bottle tucked in the crook of his arm, snarling orders and swearing under his breath. When he saw Daemon, his heavy eyebrows formed a fierce line over bleary eyes.
"And what would the high and mighty want at this hour of the morning?" Guinness snapped. He put the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow.
They knew, Daemon thought as he took the bottle from Guinness and helped himself. Whatever it was Jaenelle brought to this place was already fading, and they knew. Handing the bottle back to Guinness, he said quietly, "Saddle Dark Dancer."
"Have ya been kicked in the head recently?" Guinness shouted, glaring at Daemon. "That one kicked down half his stall last night and tried to turn Andrew into pulp. You won't get a brisk morning gallop out of him if that's what you're thinking."
Daemon looked over his shoulder. Andrew leaned against the door of Dark Dancer's stall, favoring one leg. "I'll saddle him." Daemon brushed past the stable lads, ignoring Guinness's dark muttering.
When Daemon pulled the latch to open the top half of the door, Andrew thrust out a shaking hand to stop him. "He wants to kill something," Andrew whispered.
Daemon looked at the sunken eyes in the pale, frightened face. "So do I." He opened the door.
